


i'll get there in my own time

by paopuleaf



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Cognitohazards, Drabble Collection, Gen, POV Second Person, kind of, memory and being remembered, mentions of the other garages plus agan harrison and alyssa harrell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:22:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29702586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paopuleaf/pseuds/paopuleaf
Summary: arturo huerta, being remembered, and routines.
Relationships: Arturo Huerta & Malik Destiny, Arturo Huerta & Theodore Duende, Arturo Huerta & Tot Clark
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	i'll get there in my own time

**Author's Note:**

> some notes! arturo is the pov character, but they use any pronouns; malik destiny uses ae/aer, tot clark uses ze/hir, teddy duende uses he/him. the idea of all three funny little blaseball cognitohazards being friends comes from [this lovely fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29013159) and [this wonderful tumblr post](https://birdlord5000.tumblr.com/post/639228907201200129)! allie and jaylen are only mentioned, but allie is a he/him lesbian (which is the creation of [luke](https://dykesforcyclops.tumblr.com/)) and jaylen is entirely inspired by [kaylee's](https://rogueumpire.tumblr.com) interpretation, and uses she/her! arturo and teddy being married for tax benefits comes from [marn](https://kentuckycorpsereviver.tumblr.com/) of dead garages fame. as always, thank you to chat rp hell for this incredibly contrived mess of headcanons that now live rent free in my head!

**i** .

if you died, you know nobody would remember your name.

**ii** .

maybe that's uncharitable. 

there are other people like you out there, ones who know you, ones who remember you and ones who you remember even when nobody else can.

none of them are garages, though. maybe you're okay with that.

**iii** .

if they looked at your ashes, would they remember?

**iv.**

_ won't know until i'm dead _ , you guess. there's something comforting in that.

**v** .

it is every morning at eight, a kitchen table set for two and a counter with eggs, bread, cheese and a grater set out on it. it is a stove with a pan coated in olive oil, it is a window with the curtains tied open, it is a sink empty of dishes besides the fork used to stir the eggs.

it is teddy duende walking into the kitchen and remembering you exist, just in time for breakfast together, as it is every morning at eight.

**vi** .

it is also this; every morning at nine, a key left in a potted plant by an unassuming door. it is letting yourself in and kicking off your shoes next to the worn-down sneakers and barely touched boots. it is grabbing the bandages from the third drawer to the left by the oven, the one with all the bells and assorted things tot and luis couldn't find space for, and it is knocking on the frame of the open bedroom doorway.

it is tot clark glancing over, from some part of the room or another, and remembering you exist, as it is every morning at nine.

**vii** .

sometimes, even; it is sunday at noon. you know that nobody coming to the breakfast café will forget to show up, because nobody coming to the breakfast café is remembered, and therefore they remember the best. it is agan harrison and alyssa harrell and you. it is asking about agan's husband over sandwiches, and harrell about her baking, and it is them asking you about teddy, the garages.

it is being late or being early without the fear of being left behind. it is friends in shared experience, and it is playing four dollars and twenty-five cents for a craft soda, because harrell has quotably (to you, to agan) expensive taste in drinks, and it is agan agreeing to split the bill with you and her interruption to make it three-way.

it is sunday at noon, and it is warm, the beginning and the end of every week's routines.

**viii** .

the garages are practicing in your basement today.

you're technically supposed to be practicing with them, but it's a lot more fun to test the boundaries of what  _ seeing  _ you is, letting them catch a glimpse of you turning around the corner and seeing if they know anything's wrong.

the answer is: they do. ollie notarobot asks teddy if there's ghosts in his house, and you hide a laugh from your hiding space up the stairs. in some ways, there might as well be. you'd make a fun haunted house.

_ then _ you go to practice. you sit next to where tot is practicing guitar by the wall and watch as teddy talks with betsy and ollie mueller, something or another about showing up to their next show. malik joins you after a second, leans over you to bat at tot's guitar strings, and you snicker as ze swats at aer hand.

"this saturday, same time?" you ask tot, and ze glances over. 

"always." ze returns to hir guitar. hir responses to you asking are always like that. some casual promise, short and, on fun occasions, cryptic. you've gotten used to them like you've gotten used to mornings at eight and then nine, and lunches on sunday at noon.

"what're you guys doin'?" malik's ears twitch, and you remember ae's there - isn't it strange, to be able to forget instead of being forgotten - as aer tail lashes and hits you in the back of the shin. "is  _ this  _ why jaylen always complains about you always being busy on saturdays?"

"she complains?"

"when the topic comes up," you say. malik nods in agreement.

tot hums. "i'm going to hit her with my car," ze says, nonchalant, and malik makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a hiss. "i thought she was only complaining at me about it."

"maybe we should kidnap her and mail her to allie!"

"we couldn't do that to him." 

"we could," ae says. "not like he doesn't do it to himself every siesta."

"either way." you grab malik's tail when it hits you again, pushing it gently towards aer, and continue, "saturdays are days where we just kind of hang out, malik. you're welcome to come over if you want."

tot glances over, before shrugging. "sure. it's my apartment."

malik grins, toothy, before it falls a little bit, aer ears flicking back in embarrassment. "i don't remember! where that is at all. text me the-"

"address. sure," ze repeats, flat as usual. malik doesn't seem offset by it. "shouldn't you two be practicing?"

"i can't remember where teddy put my drum set." you take another glance around the basement, and end up right back at malik and tot, both of their eyebrows raised in a silent question. "i can also forget things. it's not weird."

"it's kind of weird!" 

you wave your hand at malik and end up bonking aer in the cheek, trying to push down a smile. "it's not weird. what if i said it's weird you can't understand cats?"

"i'd go 'yeah it is weird, man i wish i could understand cats, don't rub it in,' and then i'd-" malik pounces, which is really just flopping against your chest and hitting aer head on tot's guitar, " _ ow- _ pounce!"

"ow-pounce." 

"tot," malik whines, and ze snorts. says 'hm,' and pushes aer head away from hir guitar with one bandaged hand. 

"what's your excuse for not practicing?"

"lazy!"

"teddy," you call, and malik rolls off of you to stand at attention, looking extremely betrayed. "malik needs something to do, right?"

"oh! you can help out over here, then-"

malik hisses something like 'arturo huerta i'm going to get you' as ae walks over, tail lashing. tot has one hand against hir mouth like ze's hiding a grin.

"that'll come back to get you saturday," ze says, voice barely betraying hir smile. "do you need hunting for splort tips?"

"i'm friends with ag-  _ a  _ jand, i don't need tips on that."

"fair. good luck."

"thanks."

you can't say you're not looking forward to a mix-up, anyway.

**ix** .

it's always weird to you when tot remembers that you're coming over.

ze always says something like  _ not exactly _ , which is exactly the kind of cryptic brand bullshit you bought into when you started helping hir, then hanging out with hir, but it's - unfamiliar, to be recognized. even more so with malik coming. 

you half-expect them to be already gone by the time you show up, but they're both there. like they were expecting you.

it's nice. (you go out to the stadium with a bag of spraypaint, and you show them the memorials you've been doing for the dead. they chip in, a little, imperfect but present. an ode to their memory.)

**x** .

"it's almost tax season."

you look up at teddy from where you're reading, a book you found at the local thrift store that caught your eye. he's shuffling through garages paperwork - he has to know he doesn't have to file that, right, but why would he do it for  _ fun  _ \- with a contemplative expression on his face.

"yeah?"

"it's our first year filing together."

"i'm excited to see how  _ this _ goes," you comment, wry, and he laughs, pulling his hair up and out of his face. "do you want me to cover the team stuff for a bit?"

"only if you want."

"i'll take it, and you'll forget it even exists." you lean over and take it from his hands. it's simple stuff, but tedious, text too-small. "you're not wearing your glasses?"

teddy's expression darkens. "the big garage stole them," he tells you, completely serious, and you do  _ not  _ laugh, no. "i haven't been able to find them in weeks. weeks!"

"have you tried asking nicely?"

"the big garage is a dick."

you nod. you had a good enough rapport with it from your art, but it was, in fact, a dick who had stolen your spraypaint away to trade with ollie's a couple times. the idea of a practical joke. either way: "i'll find them. it won't even notice me."

"most people don't," teddy jokes. most people don't joke about your whole - cognitohazard thing, either, and it catches you off guard as you snicker. 

"sure don't," you say, "but that's just an upside."

the words are out of your mouth before you can really process them, but it's true. teddy's eyes crinkle at the corners the way they do when he's happy. happy  _ for _ you, you think. "good," pause, "i'm glad."

**xi** .

the season is starting soon.

you will be remembered at every game you pitch - a margin that's lower, with how many pitchers the garages have collected - and you will be remembered in the locker room. you will be remembered in the mornings and on saturdays, and on sundays at noon, game-willing. 

isn’t that something?

you stand on the mound, at your stadium, and practice your pitch.

**Author's Note:**

> arturo huerta my beloved  
> find me @ catboydeicide on tumblr, @ ghostcatboys on twitter, or in the crabitat, maybe !


End file.
